Shadows in the Forest
by Call It Hope
Summary: This is just a short fic told from the perspective of the infamous "Black Man" who lived in the forest and represented the devil from Nathaniel Hawthorne's book The Scarlet Letter.


He felt her coming near him. Felt her drawing closer and closer. Entering into his very own territory. He scampered over the dead leaves, trying to find her, find her. Find her for his book. The woods groaned around him, feeling the disturbance in the usual placidity of its being.

"Hurry, hurry!" he whispered to himself. He must not let her go. He must not let her leave his very own territory. Not without proffering the book. He flitted through the shadows, not daring to step into the sunlight at any moment, not daring to make the mistakes he might have made in times past. Finally, her presence was so strong that he nearly fell to his knees in adoration of such, such guilt. Such sin. A cackle was poised to jump out of the dark, gaunt mouth, but he kept it in.

"Must not ruin it. Must not..." he muttered frantically. A sinewy hand shot out from the shadow of an oak tree and pushed a particularly leafy branch out of the view. There. There. There she was! There they were, sin and guilt! Her eyes, her clothes—that noble mien! All declaring the turmoil inside! And there. _There_ , that beauteous, glorious, beauteous sign. _That_ was the beginning point of her presence. The aura emanating from that crimson honor overpowered all her own presence. She was _perfect_. The ecstasy would no longer be held back. His stained lips parted as he threw his dark head back, and a howl of Hades—a howl from guillotine basket, from the soul torn asunder—ripped from the depths of his person. She looked around quickly, and he shuffled forward eagerly, clutching the book in his rotting hands. Then, he stopped.

"Mother, why are you walking so slowly?"

The woman turned, looked at the little girl all dressed in scarlet with her hands on her hips and smiled. Agony burst from a vein in his heart. No—no! His book! Almost filled! Oh, why didn't she send the girl off?

"I heard something, my Pearl."

The little girl laughed. He shivered. What sort of creature was this? No sin, no feeling—the girl was a monster! A creature no God had made! She danced around her mother's legs, and he was held spell-bound by this little sprite, engaging in what seemed to be a primeval ritual.

"I heard the birds and the butterflies singing, Mother! Is that what you heard?" she sang, giving her mother the most dazzling smile. The woman smiled back. He shrank from the sight as his eyes burned from the experience. His hands shook with the weight of his book. He must have her name. He must have her name!

"Butterflies do not sing, Pearl. Why dost thou not go to the brook?"

"I want to go find the Indians!" the girl giggled. He took another step backwards into the shadows. This girl. This creature unknown. Her disobedience, her defiance, was untraceable except in her eyes, where the heart—if there was a heart in her—was reflected with a glitter of jewel-toned laughter.

"The Indians do not welcome little girls, child. They will take all of thy beautiful hair," the woman replied calmly. "But you may go if you would like."

The girl gazed at her mother for a moment before smiling sweetly and saying,

"No, I want to go to the brook!"

And off she skipped, barely skimming the top of the ground with her fairy feet. Now, his chance! He rushed forward, licking his lips with the air of a vulgar connoisseur ready to taste the fares of the wine country.

"Arthur Dimmesdale!" the woman said suddenly, forcing him to pause in his proceedings. A man emerged from a forest path on the other side of the clearing. The watchful bookkeeper crept closer to the scene, eying the man with distinct suspicion. A slight hiss shot out from between his begrimed teeth as he saw the book held in the man's hands. The book in his own hands shuddered at the presence of such filth—such vile, vile filth. How could such a gloriously fallen woman be connected with such a person? Bile filled up in his throat until finally he spat it onto the ground in frustration. The purple slime sizzled as it scorched the earth underneath, but his eyes were on the couple at hand. There was something strange going on.

The man. It had to do with the man. Something was trying to escape, to undo, that white collar round his throat. Something. Something red. All of a sudden, he understood, and he laughed. His maroon tongue hung out of one corner of his mouth as he laughed, and a whispery wheeze ricocheted off the sides of his throat until it surged out of his mouth, only to melt away into the sound of dead leaves rustling through the woods. Despite all the pious appearance, sin once more prevailed. He tiptoed up behind the log on which they sat together.

"There is one, Arthur, who will ruin you," the woman was saying anxiously.

"Who, Hester?"

"He is even under your roof. He says he protects you, but he means to seek revenge on you!" the woman continued, hardly attending to the other's question.

"Hester...how shall I bear it?"

The bookkeeper sat amongst the ripened leaves and smiled at the backs of their heads. These fools. Did they truly believe there was any escape from sin?

"We must leave. Sail for the Old World. It is our only chance to be rid of him!"

The man looked so shocked, and the bookkeeper began to hope that he might go, leaving the scarlet sinner behind for _his_ book.

"Hester!"

"There is no other way."

Her calmness seemed to act as a narcotic on the man, and the wrinkles on his forehead were wiped away by her tone. Their audience was most seriously displeased.

"I shall. Let us escape from this monster."

The woman smiled and immediately rent the scarlet beacon of sin from her chest, sending it soaring right into the shadow-dweller's lap. A scream of rapture caught in his throat as he eyed the delicate threads of the embroidered evil, and he snatched it up with the eagerness of a greedy child. The book in his hands fell open, and he flipped through the pages until he found an empty page. He pressed it into the paper until the dye seeped from the thread as blood leeches out of a wound. There! There! Her signature! Oh, his book! Could it be more complete? Oh, the sin! His cup was brimmed to the top, and he fell back into the dark shadows a happier demon. The scarlet "A" remained in the leaves as he slinked off to find more souls and transgressions to call his own.


End file.
